


if i could find a way to see this straight

by AliuIce0814



Series: cough syrup [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bruce is a messed-up little scrap of humanity, Gen, Natasha really does care about people, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, also for Steve Rogers, anxiety disorders, lots of triggers, panic disorders, team dynamics are important, thank god for science bros, whoops I made a series, why do people ever leave Bruce alone I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliuIce0814/pseuds/AliuIce0814
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce hadn’t realized he could have a panic attack without Hulking out. Yet here he was, flat on the lab floor, face pressed into the cool tile, shaking himself into shock. He wasn't okay, not at all.<br/>That's where his team came in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. losing my mind losing control

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: panic attack, panic disorder, depression, suicidal ideation, mentions of alcoholism, mentions of past child abuse
> 
> BRUCE IS ONCE AGAIN NOT IN A GOOD PLACE. HE'S NOT. IF THIS WILL MAKE YOU FEEL AWFUL OR TRIGGER YOU, DO NOT READ IT. A FIC IS NOT WORTH MAKING YOU SICK. 
> 
> Unbetaed, written in a two-hour span in the muddled day after a panic attack. Tell me if I've made a gross mistake. I'll edit accordingly.

                Bruce hadn’t realized he could have a panic attack without Hulking out. All studies pointed to the contrary—that if the heart palpitations didn’t unleash the Other Guy, the pure, mind-numbing fear would.

                Yet here Bruce was, flat on the lab floor, face pressed into the cool tile, shaking himself into shock. His palms were cold but sweaty—clammy. He needed to breathe deeper, slower, but every inhale came as a jerky gasp. His fingers clawed at the tile, short nails scratching at linoleum, and how the hell was he not green, how the hell was he not turning? This was—this was—this was so much worse.

                Tony would come back and—Tony would come back and—Bruce couldn’t get himself out of the cupboard or Dad would find him, there was blood on the linoleum and—oh, shit, oh God—Mom would wipe tears off his face and tell him he was a good boy, always a good boy, and maybe Bruce was talking now. Maybe he was screaming, and maybe JARVIS was asking him what was wrong, and maybe the only words Bruce could force out were illogical and childish—fucking disgusting—“I want my mom!”

                There were tears on his glasses, shit, he didn’t need dirty glasses—Bruce clawed at his face, trying to get them off. This was ridiculous; this was childish; this was—you weakling, Banner, you sissy, you miserable shell of a human being. JARVIS was telling him something; he needed to listen, but his ears were numb, his hearing gone. His heart stuttered, and no, how was he not Hulking out? If he—Dummy and Butterfingers and U—if he broke Tony’s toys—Tony’s mechanical children—no, no—

                Bruce’s sweaty fingers found his phone. They lost all physician’s precision, shaking like a drunkard’s—like Dad’s, after him with a bottle, a knife, a gun, no, help—as he texted. _Help._

Then _please_

_Tony help_

_Help help please help Tony help please_

_Need help I_

_Shit_

_Please won’t_

_Shit_

_Help_

Bruce’s stomach cramped. He was going to throw up—no, he wasn’t—he was—his head spun. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool tile and groaned. He was—this was—he _wasn’t going to die. He couldn’t, not with the Other Guy, damn him; he was going to live, and that was—_ oh, shit—Tony would find him and—he needed to run, he couldn’t—Tony would come back from his conference and—

                His phone buzzed.

                _Bruce._

_Cmon Dr. Banner, talk to me. What’s going on?_

_Bruce??_

_You’re scaring me, buddy. Text back. What’s wrong??_

_I’m in a meeting but it’s boring, so many stupid people, waste of time, you should be here_

_OK, Jarv gave me the low-down, it’s going to be OK, Big Guy. I’m flying home_

                Bruce swallowed convulsively. The phone nearly slipped from his hands as he typed. _No please don’t I don’t I just sorry Tony I’m so sorry_

 _Hey!_ Bruce could almost hear Tony’s voice in the text. _You stop that self-deprecating nonsense Dr. Banner. On my way whether you like it or not, you OK now?_

Bruce lifted his head to think about it. Then his gaze fell on the broken glass, on the robots huddled in one corner, on Tony’s lab, so pristine, too big of a gift for a wreck of a man, and— _no not okay sorrygod Tony I’m I’ll_

_You’ll what?_

_Cmon Big Guy, text back._

_You gotta talk to me, buddy, cmon_

_Cmon Science Bro_

_Bruce??_

_Fuck_

_Cmon Bruce, please, just a letter, something_

_Shit_

_Coming back as fast as I can_

_It’s OK, help is on its way_

_Hang in there. Please._


	2. these fishes in the sea they're staring at me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Help is on its way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: suicidal ideation/panic attack/Steve being from the 40s/self-harm/same as for rest of work.

Bruce was used to waking up half-naked in piles of rubble. It was a part of sharing a body with the Other Guy, a part of his job as an Avenger. It was always frightening at first, the memory gap before he realized where he was and how he’d gotten there, but then Clint would fetch the emergency pants, and Natasha would perch his glasses on his nose, and Thor would clap him on the shoulder, and Tony would make some terrible joke that Steve would disapprove of, and Bruce would be all right.

                Except—this time, Bruce woke up with his pants torn but his memory intact. This time, he woke up in the rubble of a lab. This time, no one was there to tease or soothe.

                Bruce screamed.

                Dummy—no—Dummy’s charging station was GONE, was completely GONE—you bastard, you bastard, that thing was Tony’s kid—Butterfingers, U, no, what about JARVIS? Surely the AI could—but what if his main station had been in—oh God, the Tower, Pepper’s tower, Tony’s tower, they’d just finished fixing it after the Chitauri invasion and Bruce had—a whole storey gone—Bruce did throw up this time. His arm scraped against rubble; he paused, fascinated for a moment by the trickle of blood down his wrist, then yelled again. No, the hazmat, he had to—a man, an old man had opened a Brazilian soft drink and—Bruce had only been trying to help!

                Banner, you miserable creature. You useless piece of toxic waste.

                There were hands on his shoulders.

                Bruce startled, instinctively trying to wrest out of their grip. The hands were strong, though, unnaturally so; one held him in place as the other quickly and efficiently bandaged his arm. “No, don’t, you’ll—I’m poison.”

                “Your blood might be, but you aren’t, Dr. Banner.” The same careful hands put the tiniest pressure on Bruce’s shoulder as their owner crouched beside him. Bruce knew that voice, oh God, and even if he hadn’t he would have recognized the leather jacket and dress khakis. Steve squeezed his arm. “What’s wrong? Tony told me to come here right away. I ran as fast as I could.”

                Bruce choked on something—vomit, maybe, or his pride. No, Captain America couldn’t see him like—Steve couldn’t see him like—weak, he knew he looked weak already, but to someone from the 40s—Bruce had to look insane, completely mad, and Steve wouldn’t—Bruce needed his respect, needed him to—

                “Hey. Easy, soldier.” Bruce wanted to argue that he wasn’t one, but the part of his mind—tiny, miniscule, and unimportant—that was still logical told him that Steve might has seen other soldiers having panic attacks. War was hell. War was—maybe life was war because it was hell too. “What’s wrong?”

                Bruce gasped. “Need help. Need—I’m—”

                “You’ve got help. I’m here. Look at me.” The words weren’t spoken like an order, but Bruce looked up anyway. He trembled, trying not to think of what Steve saw in his eyes. A monster? No. A wreck. A ruined genius. A frightened child. A failure. Poison. Bruce flinched and looked away. Steve’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “What do you need me to do? I can help you, but you have to tell me what’s wrong.”

                Bruce’s heart thudded, a double beat, something not quite right. He swallowed hard against vomit and tears. He couldn’t cry in front of a man from the 40s, in front of a hero—couldn’t show weakness more than he already had. “Panic—I’m—panic attack—please, I—“

                Steve was quiet for a moment. “Tony said you might try to—to kill yourself. Is that true?”

                How had—Bruce choked on a desperate sound. Of course Tony—he was a genius— Bruce didn’t want Steve to know—but apparently not answering was answer enough. Steve pulled him into a tight hug, arms wrapped all the way around Bruce, pressing Bruce’s face into the crook of his neck. This was—Bruce looked—oh, God, when was the last time someone had hugged him? Tony poked, but—Betty, Betty in the rainstorm, Betty taking care of him, Betty risking her life, where was Betty, was she okay, if Ross—

                Bruce made a sound. Steve shushed him and rubbed his back. Bruce’s legs kicked out helplessly against the broken tile. His hands spasmodically grabbed at Steve’s jacket. When his right palm accidentally brushed the back of Steve’s neck, Steve jumped. “You’re freezing, Bruce. Let’s get you warmed up. Let’s go to the den. Do you need help? Can you walk?”

                Bruce nodded, tried to stand, and almost immediately crashed to his knees. He grabbed the waistband of his pants to maintain some dignity while Steve helped him to his feet. He was shaking hard enough that every step made the room spin. At least the Other Guy hadn’t smashed the elevator. At least he hadn’t—he hadn’t—he shivered harder when he noticed the empty robot docks again. “The—the ‘bots—”

                “They were downstairs when I came in,” Steve said calmly. The elevator moved fast, as elevators went; they were down in the den in no time. “They’re sort of like dogs, aren’t they? They were waiting for me by the door.”

                Bruce almost laughed, but it came out as a sob. When Steve nudged him towards the couch, he curled in on himself, years of fear telling him to make himself as small as he could. Don’t get hit—don’t get—run, hide in the cupboard, he can’t reach you, can’t—hide in the cave, he can’t find you and Betty, he can’t—don’t look up, don’t make eye contact, he’ll be angry—

                A bundle of warm, dry cloth landed on Bruce. He sat up slowly, shakily, to stare at the pile of clothing Steve had set on top of him. Steve was closely studying one of Tony’s scotch bottles—modesty, Bruce realized, trying to preserve his. He pulled on the sweatpants and hoodie as quickly as he could, grateful that Steve had taken the time to find clothing that didn’t require buttons. When Steve sat beside him on the couch, he flipped Bruce’s hood up and wrapped two blankets around him. “To keep you warm,” he explained, watching Bruce cautiously. “Is there anything else I can—”

                “Hold me.” Instantly, Bruce flushed and looked away. Steve would see it as a come-on, probably, or just plain-old weakness—either way, it was—not a good thing to say, not something that would help because Steve wouldn’t hold him and then—but all he needed was pressure, physical comfort, something to—

                A warm hand caught Bruce by the back of his neck and tugged him against Steve. Bruce made a soft, surprised sound and then went silent but for the occasional gasp between tears. Steve held on. Bruce shuddered for what felt like an hour, occasionally grabbing helplessly at Steve’s shirt. Whenever he did that, Steve would pet the top of his head tentatively. He must have been imitating someone—probably his mother. Bruce tried not to throw up at the thought. His mom would have done the same thing, brushing her soft rosewater-scented fingertips over Bruce’s forehead and cheeks, calming him down. He shivered and shuddered and finally went completely still.

                Steve reached to feel Bruce’s hands. “Now you’re warmer,” he said approvingly. “Feeling better?”

                Bruce nodded. His head felt incredibly heavy. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

                “No. Don’t be sorry. That wasn’t your fault.” When Bruce snorted, Steve frowned. “I’m staying with you.”

                Bruce wasn’t sure if Steve expected him to protest, but he didn’t plan on it. “Tired,” he said softly. “Probably going to fall asleep. Sorry. I—”

                “Don’t be sorry,” Steve said again. “Get some sleep if you need to. I’ll be here. I’m not going to leave you.”


	3. restore life the way it should be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bozhe moy, Doc, you don’t have anything to be ashamed of. So—don’t be ashamed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: vague suicidal ideation/self-hatred/depression/remnants of anxiety attack
> 
> Also, the author is not a Russian speaker.
> 
> And gratuitous mentions of Thomas Hiddleston.

Bruce woke up to someone running their fingers through his hair. At first, he thought it was Mom; after the jolting realization that she had been dead for decades, he thought it was Betty. Then he realized Betty’s fingernails weren’t nearly that long. He sat up hurriedly and then hissed when his head spun.

                “Careful, Doc.”

                Bruce blinked. “Natasha?” She watched him with her cat’s gaze. He frowned, forcing his muddled brain to think. “I thought you were—you’re back early.”

                “I am,” she agreed. “Stark said our teammate needed us.” Before Bruce realized what that meant, Natasha nudged him the rest of the way upright so she could curl up on the sofa beside him. Bruce stared. She tilted her head to one side so it leaned on his shoulder. “I was finished with my mission anyway.”

                “It’s getting too easy. Right, Nat?” Clint swung down out of the ceiling to perch on the arm of the sofa. He opened the bag of M&Ms he’d brought with him and inhaled half the package before Natasha could snatch them away. Bruce watched in a daze, his hands trembling slightly. Natasha noticed and took one of them in her own. “Hey, that was my dinner!”

                “That’s not dinner, Clint. No. Back me up on this one, Bruce.”

                Bruce rubbed his face and sighed. “You should probably eat something with higher protein and carbohydrate content after a mission before you eat pure sugar, Clint.”

                “Damn!” Clint hopped off the couch. “Fine. I’ll go see what Thor’s eating. That’s got to be good.”

                Bruce stiffened. “Thor’s here?”

                “Everyone is,” Natasha said. “We all came back when we got Tony’s text.”

                “Oh.” Bruce averted his gaze, looking instead at the Stark Industries logo splashed across the front of his hoodie. He could feel his cheeks turning red. “You shouldn't have done that.”

                Natasha’s hold on his hand tightened until it was almost painful. Bruce’s head jerked up; she held it there with her other hand. “Listen to me, Bruce. You and I are used to being alone, but we’re on a team now. The rules are different. When one of us needs help, the rest of us have a responsibility to take care of that person. Bozhe moy, Doc, you don’t have anything to be ashamed of. So—don’t be ashamed.”

                Slowly, Bruce nodded, trying and failing to meet Natasha’s gaze. Her tight hold on his head turned into her fingers carding through his hair again. When he finally worked up the courage to look at her, she smiled and let her hand drop. Her other hand still held his fast.

                “Friend Bruce!” Bruce only had a moment’s warning before Thor dropped down on his other side and pulled him into a bear hug. Usually, Thor’s hugs were violent but quick. This one was gentler, at least by Thor’s standards, and it lasted nearly a minute; Bruce counted to thirty before he relaxed enough to enjoy the embrace, just a tiny bit. “It is good to come home,” Thor said when he finally pulled away. “And to see you.”

                Bruce couldn’t quite find it in him to reply, but Thor didn’t seem to mind. He left one arm around Bruce’s shoulders. When Clint swung out of the ceiling again, with food this time, Steve came through the door that connected the den to the kitchen. He smiled when he saw Bruce sitting up. “It’s movie night,” he reminded them. “Bruce’s pick.”

                At first, Bruce felt too overwhelmed to choose. He imagined everyone staring, judging, waiting for him to decide—but then he realized that they had all gone back to their other conversations, giving him time to think in peace. When he finally murmured, “ _Midnight in Paris,”_ Natasha let go of his hand just long enough to put in the movie. Steve left and then came back with charcoal and a sketchbook. Thor left and came back with a mug of ale. Bruce hesitated, then leaned his head back against Thor’s arm.

                “Hey, Pointbreak, scootch over. That’s my science bro!”

                Thor mock-glared at Tony, but he acquiesced. Tony flopped down onto the couch beside Bruce and elbowed him in the side. “Hey, broski. Bruce. Dr. Banner. You know, thanks for dragging me out of that meeting. Do I really care about mutual funds? Are they really life-altering? No and no. I was designing reverse stabilizers on napkins, Bruce. Napkins. Next time you’re going with me. You don’t have a choice. Understand? Then you can go to all of my meetings with investors and scabby-kneed kids who think they can invent—some of them can, by the way, just not the ones who meet with those investors, generally. Hey, you know, somebody’s been wanting to see you.”

                Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose, smiling in spite of himself. “Who, Tony?”

                Tony whistled. Immediately, Dummy whirred through the door, whining and clicking excitedly as it came to a halt by Bruce. When Bruce stared at him, wide-eyed, the robot nudged him with its head. Bruce carefully patted its claw-head. When it nudged him again—a happy nudge, Bruce realized incredulously, like a pleased dog—he said what Tony always said to it when he was pleased with it. “Good boy.”

                “Yeah, he was kind of worried about you. Kept following me around. Go bother Steve,” Tony said when Dummy tugged at his shirt. “No, scrap metal, I’m not going to play with you. Daddy’s tired, okay? I’ve been stuck with investors for weeks. Go bother Steve. I just want to sit here with my science buddy and watch—what is this? Who’s that supposed to be?”

                “F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

                Tony frowned, tapping his fingers against Bruce’s leg. “Is it just me, or does he look suspiciously like Loki?”

                Despite how much he enjoyed the movie, Bruce fell asleep twice during it. The first time he woke up, Thor and Tony were engaged in a vigorous debate over whether the actor who played Fitzgerald was actually Loki; the next time, everyone but Steve was asleep. Dummy whirred around the pile of sleeping Avengers, using its claw-head to tuck the blankets tighter around them, while Steve sketched them in his notebook. When he noticed that Bruce was awake, he smiled. Bruce forced himself to smile back.

                “Are you okay, Dr. Banner?”

                Bruce blinked. No, he wasn’t okay. He felt numb and sore. His mind ached. His wrist throbbed where it had been cut, and he struggled not to think of the gamma-infected place he’d left behind in the rubble upstairs. He still couldn’t trust himself. Why would he? He was a freak of nature, a fucked-up scrap of humanity. He was worthless.

                But Natasha’s hand was still curled in his. Tony slumped against him, arc reactor casting blue light on Bruce’s chest and face. Thor kept an arm wrapped around all of them while Clint sat upright, ready to spring awake and into action if danger arrived. Bruce wasn’t shaking anymore. He could think, sort of. He was safe, almost.

                “I’m better,” he found himself saying. “I’m getting better.”

**Author's Note:**

> [bluestalking](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestalking/pseuds/bluestalking) mentioned something about using Bruce to help me sort through my own problems. I did just that.


End file.
